


the hell you endure

by thewalrus_said



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advice From a Demon, Coming Out, Encounters at a Bus Stop, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 13:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20408239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: An ice cream cart has set up between the wine shop and the bus stop. Crowley’s in a good mood, which can only be enhanced by a vanilla cone with a flake. Providence in action.There’s a young person already waiting at the stop, desperately arguing with someone on the phone. “No,” ey say through gritted teeth. “We’re not doing that.”





	the hell you endure

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [break open the heavens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392924) by [stammiviktor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor). 

> So I read stammiviktor's fic, and immediately my brain went, "That but Crowley." And she was nice enough to let me play in her sandbox. So here's that fic, but Crowley. Thanks to [crossroadswrite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite) for beta and cheerleading!

An ice cream cart has set up between the wine shop and the bus stop. Crowley’s in a good mood, which can only be enhanced by a vanilla cone with a flake. Providence in action.

There’s a young person already waiting at the stop, desperately arguing with someone on the phone. “No,” ey say through gritted teeth. “We’re not doing that.”

Crowley’s a fan of eavesdropping both in general terms _ and _ in his specific case, so he focuses his ears on the phone in time to hear the other person’s response. “Look, everyone else knows already,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry, just resigned. “And if they’re shits they’re shits, and I won’t talk to them anymore.”

“You’re not doing that,” the person at Crowley’s end says. “Not for me.”

“It’s my family, it’s my call whether I talk to them or not.”

“And it’s my call who gets told,” ey say in a hiss. “And I say no.”

“You’re being a martyr -”

The young person ends the call with an angry jab of eir finger and lets a long breath out through eir nose. Eir eyes flick to Crowley, and then to his ice cream cone, and then to the street. Crowley whistles a little tune he picked up somewhere in the fifteenth century. He’d been very into music in the fifteenth century. Part of celebrating not being in the fourteenth anymore.

Eir eyes flick back to Crowley’s cone. Specifically, to the flake sticking out of it.

Crowley plucks the flake from the ice cream and extends it towards em. “There.” Ey give him a look. “It’s not poisoned. I just bought it from the cart down the street.”

After another moment’s hesitation, ey take the flake. Ey consider it, then pop it into eir mouth whole. Eir eyes flutter shut as ey chew.

“You know,” Crowley says conversationally. Ey turn to him. “I’ve been around the block a few times, and from what I’ve seen, gender causes more problems than it solves.”

The young person’s mouth drops open, bits of chocolate falling out. “Oh, sure,” Crowley goes on. “There’s some people for whom gender’s wonderfully useful, affirming and all that, and more power to them. But I’ve never been one of them myself.”

Ey look out at the street. There’s silence for a few minutes. Crowley applies himself to his rapidly-melting ice cream. “How did you know?” ey ask.

“Oh, intuitive, that’s me,” Crowley says. “Young person arguing with eir partner on the phone about how it’s eir call who gets told something? Gender’s at the root of it.”

Ey blink at him. “How... how did you know my pronouns?”

Crowley taps the rim of his sunglasses. “Part of my whole deal. I see people as God made them.”

“You don’t believe in gender but you do believe in God?”

“Oh, I believe gender _ exists,_” Crowley says. “It’s a thing, sure. It exists the same way war exists, or capitalism, or God. Probably originally intended to be useful, but it’s got horribly muddled over the centuries until you’ve got young people crying over it today.”

“I wasn’t crying,” ey mutter. Then, louder, “How do you identify, then?”

Crowley considers this. “Nongendered occult entity probably gets closest to it. He/him pronouns, for the moment.”

Ey snort. “I like that. Occult entity, is that like a witch or something?”

“Demon, technically.” Crowley waggles his eyebrows, getting a proper laugh out of em. “I do know a witch, though. Lovely woman. Getting married in the spring.”

(The bus turns the corner down by the ice cream cart. Crowley thinks it would be rather nice if it just hung out down there for a while. He’s enjoying this conversation.)

“Go on, then,” Crowley says. “What’s on your mind?” Ey bite eir lip. Crowley takes a chunk out of his sugar cone and tries to look encouraging.

“I’m out to everybody, and I do mean _ everybody, _ except my boyfriend’s family,” ey say, after a bit of waffling. “They’ll be awful about it, and he’ll cut them off, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to ruin his life,” ey add all in a rush.

Crowley hums. “Tricky thing, trying not to ruin someone’s life. Gotta be careful or you’ll wind up in a worse muddle than you were trying to avoid.”

“What?”

“Do you want to hide from them?” Crowley asks. “Are you staying closeted because you want to be, or for safety, or is it just for his supposed benefit?”

“Supposed benefit?” Ey sound offended now. “I’m preserving his relationship with his family!”

Crowley shrugs. “Listen, I’ve been the child of a bad parent, and I’ve raised a child with parents who were, if not bad, at best mediocre, and sometimes changing your relationship to them is necessary.”

Ey twitch. “They’re not _ bad _ parents,” ey say, a little less hotly. “Just intolerant.”

“Intolerance is bad parenting,” Crowley says. He pops the rest of the cone in his mouth and crunches it.

Ey cross eir arms, looking back out at the street.

Crowley sighs. “Listen. Theo.” Eir head snaps back towards him, mouth dropping open again. “I know a bit about not wanting to ruin someone’s life by loving him.”

“How did you know my name?” ey breathe. In answer, Crowley slides his sunglasses down his nose and widens his irises until the whites are gone. Ey gasp. “Oh Christ, you really are a demon.”

Crowley pushes the sunglasses back up. “And my partner’s an angel. So when I say I know, trust me, I know.”

Ey laugh, on the edge of hysteria. “A demon is giving me life advice. _ Fuck._”

“Listen to me, I’m trying to tell you something.” Crowley waits until ey meet his eyes again. “For a long time, my partner and I did nothing about our feelings for each other because we both thought being with me would ruin his life. Heaven doesn’t exactly look nicely on fraternizing with demons.” Unless they’re trying to execute a traitor in a particularly inventive way. But ey don’t need to know that. “I stayed in his life, because I couldn’t not, but we never crossed that line, because neither of us wanted me to be responsible for what came after.”

Theo is listening, rapt, eyes fixed on Crowley. “What changed?”

“Heaven turned on him anyway,” Crowley says bluntly. Ey flinch. “With families like that, the black sheep will always get turned on eventually. And besides that, we realized that he was going to love me no matter what. He’s a being of love, and he imprinted on me early. So he could either love me in silence, and we’d both be miserable, or he could love me out loud, and let me make him happy.”

There are tears in eir eyes. “And it, it’s worth it? You make him happy?”

“I do my best.” Crowley reaches out and puts a hand on eir shoulder. “You’re right. It’s your call who you come out to. But if you ask me? Give him the chance to make you happy.”

Ey shut eir eyes, tears leaking out, and nod. “Okay. Okay. You’re right. This isn’t sustainable.”

“Some people can hide forever,” Crowley says. “There’s no shame in not being one of those people.” Ey nod again, wiping eir face. Crowley squeezes eir shoulder, lets go, and releases the bus.

As it approaches, Crowley reaches into his pocket, tears a rip through reality, and plucks a business card off Aziraphale’s desk. Handing it to em, he says, “My partner runs a bookshop. I’m there most days, or if I’m not, he knows how to contact me. Let me know how it goes, one way or another.” Ey take the card with a slow nod, still crying. Crowley smiles at em and swings himself onto the bus. He sits on the top deck in the middle. Ey follow him up and settle in a seat at the front. Fair enough.

Crowley pulls out his phone and calls Aziraphale. “Guess what I found,” he says over the angel’s greeting. “A 1942 Château Filhot, just sitting in this little shop next to a bottle of vodka. They didn’t know what they had. I’ll be home soon, want to crack it open tonight after dinner? Great, see you soon.” He hangs up. Theo, eir own phone pressed to eir ear, turns back and gives him a tentative smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://thewalrus-said.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/thewalrus_said)!


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